


Breaking and Entering

by EchoSilverWolf



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 20 Questions, Cuddling, Drunk John Watson, Drunk Sherlock, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, It's an experiment, Jail, Johnlock Roulette, Johnlock Winter Fic Challenge, Lock Picking, Love Confessions, M/M, Oh Look! A Dash Of Mystrade!, Passing the time with a game...kind of, Trapped Together on Christmas Prompt, but not really, coat sharing, fluffy feels, fluffy fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 19:43:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13348188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoSilverWolf/pseuds/EchoSilverWolf
Summary: Trying to catch his brother in a lie on Christmas Eve, a very drunk Sherlock drags John along to catch him in the act.They wind up getting arrested and spending the rest of the night locked up together.Humor and Fluff and Feelings.





	Breaking and Entering

Sherlock leans heavily into John’s side as John fumbles with the paper clip.

“Tell me ‘gain why we’re doin this, Sherlock?”

“‘Be...because...John, I know they’re in there! Why else would he...why they won’t...do...the answering...texts...thing,” Sherlock slurs, slumping down onto the doorstep.

John giggles, trying and failing, again, to get the piece of metal into the keyhole.

“So we're tryin to catch your brother, and Lestrade...together-together? Hmm? Why’s it bother you s’much?”

“Lying…’bout it. M’croft’s an arse. Gonna mess with the cases, John! Why haven't you done it yet?” he whines.

“M’trying, you cock, not like you're helping down there!”

“M’too drunk. S’your fault...with making s’much wine…”

“I...can’t...can’t get it in the lock.”

A loud snorting laugh comes from behind them and they both jump.

“Thought you woulda figured out how to do that by now, mate,” Greg mocks, trying to sound annoyed at the scene in front of him, but having to hold back another laugh at the sight of the pair of them, piss drunk and trying to break into his flat...on Christmas Eve no less.

Sherlock turns to him, face deadly serious, and puts a finger to his lips.

“Shhhhh….Graham...My brother and Gavin are...in there,” he gestures wildly to the door behind him. “Mustn't let them hear us!”

John points at Sherlock, and breaks into hysterical laughter.

“Sh’lock...s’name’s Greg...and he’s Greg.”

“Jesus, you two are sloshed!” Lestrade chuckles. “Think maybe you need a nice place to sleep it off.”

“Shit,” John mutters as cold metal closes around his left wrist, the other cuff clicking shut around Sherlock’s right.

“Up you get boys...nobody better sick up in my car!”

***

Greg’s keys clatter against the cell door as he unlocks it with one hand. He tosses a blanket at Sherlock’s head, and sets a tray down on the bench.

“Lucky I’ve some Christmas spirit, gents; brought ya some nibbles and water now that you’ve sobered up a bit...sorry, only had the one blanket...you two can fight over it...or share it.” He winks as he turns to shut the door, calling back, “Merry Christmas!” over his shoulder as he closes it behind him.

Sherlock tosses the blanket aside, attempting to straighten out his ruffled hair from where it landed. John giggles at him from the bench.

“No point in that...not like there’s anyone to impress. Spending Christmas Eve in the nick...probably NOT one for the blog!” he chuckles, snatching some crisps from the tray.

Sherlock pulls his legs to his chest and rests his head on his knees.

“I may die of boredom by morning, John,” he mumbles, “and my mobile battery won’t last that long.”

John raises an eyebrow.

“How did you…?”

“Shhhhh...didn’t take my coat…Geoff is getting lazy in his old age.”

“Greg...Sherlock...his name...is Greg, and watch it, he is just a bit older than me!”

“Bored!”

“Could play a game,” John offers.

“Dull.”

“Come on, not like we’ve anything else to do in here.”

Sherlock huffs, but lifts his head.

“What could we possibly play in a locked cell?”

“I’d offer ‘20 questions,’ but you’d just deduce everything.”

“Accurate.”

“Git.”

“Ohhh…” Sherlock pulls out his mobile and begins thumbing through it.

“So...I take it I am being ignored until that dies then?”

“No, John...give me a moment…”

John rests his head back against the wall and waits. A few moments pass and then -

“36.”

“What?”

“36 questions, John.”

“Won’t matter how many, you’ll still win.” John sighs, looking down at his flatmate, who suddenly looks a bit nervous.

“This is...different. No deducing, or guessing, involved.”

“36 questions about what?”

“Each other...we both answer them.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a game...sounds like truth or dare without the dare...so we just ask each other questions?”

“Mmmm...not quite,” he swipes through a few more things on his phone before continuing, “I read the questions, we both answer them.”

“To quote a wise man, ‘DULL,’” John retorts.

“If you have a better way to pass the time, do tell,” Sherlock mutters, shrugging off the Belstaff and stretching out his legs on the floor before crossing them.

“Why not, nothing better to do.”

He slides off the bench to sit across from his friend, who studies his mobile for another minute before setting it on his lap.

“Ok, question number one….”

***

“These questions are ridiculous.”

“Just answer them, John. Clearly, I am having a harder time with these than you are.”

“Fine…what’s next?”

“Oh…”

“What now?”

Sherlock pauses before reading out the next question.

“Share five positive characteristics about the other person.”

“Pity they have to be positive,” John says with a smirk, and gets leveled with a glare in return. “Just JOKING, take it easy...ok, umm...right.” John stares at his hands, fidgeting with a loose string on his sleeve.

“Well, first off, your brilliant mind.”

“Obvious.”

“Hush, you, or I’ll list the negatives! Ok...uh...next...you’re amazing with a violin…”

“That is more of a talent, not a characteristic.”

John pauses, a little flustered by how much more personal this has gotten.

“Your hair,” he blurts out without thinking.

“My _hair_?”

“I like it…’specially when it’s disheveled and unruly looking...it looks...soft.” John says quietly, and doesn’t miss the slight flush of color tinting his friend’s face.

“Th-Thank you, John. Y-You’ve two more,” Sherlock stutters out.

“Right”, John clears his throat, pushing the thoughts of running his fingers through those dark curls to the back of his mind.

“I would have to say...your smile. The real one. Not the ‘for a case’ pretend sincerity, but the real one you get when we’ve had a laugh, or Mrs. Hudson makes your favourite biscuits...you’ve a really nice smile when it’s for real. God, one more...yeah, I would definitely have to say your eyes...they are an interesting shape….and honestly, I don’t even know what color to call them...they are...sometimes they are bright and bluish green, and other times, they are such a light, blue-gray, almost like ice. You really have nice eyes.”

The color in Sherlock’s face is brighter now as he ducks his head, pretending to glance at his mobile.

“Your go,” John prods, gently.

“John,” Sherlock starts, then pauses, before unleashing a verbal explosion of compliments in rapid fire. “Your loyalty, John, since our first case together. We barely knew each other and you shot a man to protect me. You stand up for me when no one else ever has. You’ve risked your own life to attempt to save mine on multiple occasions. Next, your bravery, for many of the same reasons...you are an enigma...soft knitted sweaters and tea one minute, and the next, a soldier, all steady hands and calm fearlessness. Your kindness. The gentleness in your touch when you’re stitching up some injury I manage to get by being reckless; the way you make my tea - the way i like it - without having been asked; your compassion for the feelings of others - something I myself fail at spectacularly. Your sincerity. Every ‘brilliant, amazing, fantastic’ and you go a bit overboard about it, yet you mean every word. Your jumpers...”

“You HATE my jumpers.”

“They are hideous, yes, but I like them on _you_...they suit you.”

“Well, ta.”

“Your friendship, not a characteristic, but important nonetheless.”

“Thats seven, Sherlock, you can stop…”

Now John knows he is blushing too. He sees why, listening to all the things his friend notices and likes about him. It’s nice...but a bit unnerving. He feels a bit vulnerable and he can see the same on Sherlock’s face as well.

These really are delving a bit too deep.

***

“Number Thirty-Two: What, if anything, is too serious to be joked about?”

“Not hard, that: you dying - it’s never funny when you joke about it.”

“You becoming angry with me and leaving.”

They both fall silent for a moment, avoiding the other’s eyes.

Then it is a jumble of words spoken over each other.

“I am sorry for that.”

“You have to know I would never actually leave?”

They share a smile, which turns into a laugh.

Sherlock glances at his mobile.

“Only 4 left...number 33. If you were to die this evening, with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not telling someone? Why haven’t you told them?”

Sherlock stays silent, and John stiffens. Neither willing to go first.

John shakes his head. “No.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No, as in I don’t want to do this anymore. Getting too personal.”

“I think that’s rather the point.”

“I said no, Sherlock. Is there an end to this, or is it just these questions?”

“There is an end part, yes...but given your hesitancy to continue, you may not be amenable to that, either.”

“What?”

Sherlock fiddles with his phone again and says softly without looking up, “Spend 4 minutes, not speaking, making steady eye contact with your partner.”

“So we stare at each other for 4 minutes? What the hell kind of game is this?”

“It’s more of a an experiment, of sorts - well, a replication of one, anyway.”

“Can we skip the rest of the questions?”

“I would think as far as we got should be acceptable, yes.”

“Ok, then, 4 minutes and we are done?”

“I can set the timer on my mobile, it should have enough battery power to make it that long.”

“Then let’s get on with it.”

Sherlock taps in the time on his phone, then scoots a fraction closer to John, knees bumping together, and pushes start.

***

It’s too quiet. Especially after all the talking. Also a bit nerve wracking, John thinks, with Sherlock’s intense eyes locked on him. He learned more about the man tonight than he has in all the time they have lived together. This awkward as hell game or whatever it is at least had an upside. He wonders if now it is a test of wills, to see if one will talk first and lose.

He lets himself focus on Sherlock’s face, avoiding the eye contact he is supposed to be maintaining...his nose, the tiny freckles you would miss if you didn’t know they were there...that perfectly shaped mouth…

He darts his eyes quickly back up to Sherlock’s. They are nearly turquoise in the low lighting of the cell. With that tiny fleck of amber. They truly are stunning eyes. As John studies them, he watches the flutter of long lashes when he blinks...and the slow widening of his pupils, the way that they have softened around the edges. There is none of the cold, icy stare of the detective - leaving behind only curiosity and an openness he isn’t normally privy to. It’s...nice. The warmth of Sherlock’s knees against his has seemed to spread, up his legs, into his spine, into his chest.

He knows Sherlock is reading him, all of him, in these short minutes connected like this. Wonders if he feels the tingle where they are touching just slightly. Wonders what he sees in his eyes. Wonders if he also has the strange urge to lean just a little closer...to reach out...to touch…

John feels his own eyes widen at the thought, and sees Sherlock’s startle slightly at the same time...about a second before a shout from the hall of “lights out,” and the cell lights click off all the way, throwing them into darkness, save the soft glow of a mobile screen.

***

He hadn’t expected John to go along with this, and he is feeling a bit exposed from the questions he himself had to answer with more detail than he would have liked. However, learning the smaller details of John’s life, the ones he hadn’t been able to deduce on his own, was worth it. He was sure when John had halted the questions, he would never have agreed to this bit, but in true John fashion, he surprised him.

He watches as John's self-consciousness keeps him from maintaining eye contact for a few moments, watches him studying his face, before he raises them again and holds his gaze.

John’s eyes are beautiful: dark, indigo and even hints of gray or violet sometimes, with a perfect little starburst of gold around the pupil. Complex and unique, like the man they belong to. He has stared at them before, but never had this kind of opportunity to study them. Light lashes, and tiny laugh lines in the corners. The way they started off so guarded and have since become more trusting. How he watched his pupils slowly dilate as their legs bumped together again - right before something new had flashed across John’s features, just enough for him to question the change. Right before there was a shout from the hall, and the lights cut out.

***

Strange, this. Going from the intensity of the previous moment to the surrealness of sitting in the dark. Not having moved or spoken. Like they are still playing the game, or whatever this is, even without being able to see anymore. Sherlock’s mobile had gone dark a few seconds after the guard turned out the lights. Battery must’ve gone before they hit the 4 minutes.

Odd too, John thinks, that he neither seems to want to move away, or speak. There is still the pressure and warmth of Sherlock’s knees touching his. Causing him to think about things he normally doesn’t allow to the front of his mind. Things that other people already assume they are...things, if he is honest, he sometimes wishes weren’t just rumors.

It would be so easy...here, in the dark...to try. After all these intimate questions, the openness, and that...whatever that last bit was, it seems like the next logical step. He wonders for a brief moment, if it is even possible Sherlock feels something, too.

The low timbre of Sherlock's voice, just above a whisper, brings his attention back around.

“John?” Sherlock asks, in a way that sounds almost timid.

John's eyes still haven't refocused enough to see his friend's face in the darkness, and he is left to ponder what his tone might mean.

“John-I...that last question? I understand if you don't wish to answer. However, I...” John can hear him swallow anxiously before continuing,

“I find myself in the unique position of having already lived through that exact moment…’dying’ without having been able to say something I had wished to…that I should have...”

Sherlock falls silent for a few moments, as if deciding how to proceed.

“John, I have always stood by my conviction that sentiment is a fault...that caring is not an advantage...that nothing good could come from feelings.”

His voice falters, and John, not even realizing he is doing it, has shuffled closer, their knees no longer bumping, but pressed firmly together.

Sherlock startles when the soft brush of a smaller hand sweeps over his own, stopping to rest atop his larger one.

Something in his voice, the staggered sentences, the very un-Sherlock vulnerability in his tone has John’s heart hammering...a realization that whatever it is his friend is trying to get out is monumental, and that need to reach out and touch wins as he lays his own hand over Sherlock’s. A reassurance that he is listening...that he wants to know...needs to know....

Sherlock’s voice cuts the silence with a sigh.

“I was wrong, John. Caring, sometimes, IS an advantage, and sentiment...feelings...are not always a mistake...though the pain that comes with them...well…” a pause, another sigh, “I suppose...in some cases...the hurt is worth it.”

John let’s out a tiny gasp as Sherlock’s hand twists beneath his, his fingers stroking lightly over the pulse point in his wrist.

“There are things I should have said, that I meant to say, always, and never have. To answer the second half of the question first - they are things I kept to myself out of fear...fear of losing the one person who matters most to me in this world.”

John realizes they are much closer than before, both leaning in slightly. Sherlock’s words are soft and warm against his face, another inch or so and they would be nose to nose...or…

“I...was not exactly truthful that first night, at Angelo’s. I... had never had a friend. A real one. No one before had ever said ‘that's amazing’ instead of ‘piss off’. Or called me ‘brilliant’ and not ‘freak'. I...feigned disinterest out of fear of losing the chance of a friendship to the hope of something more. We had only just met. I wanted more. After that...well, you stayed. And that is more than I could have imagined. Allowing my desires, my feelings, to potentially give you reason to leave became unthinkable.”

John sucks in a shaky breath before interjecting quietly, “I...what you said. Me too. I wanted more. I still do…”

“I saw. John. At least, I think I did. On your face - for a second. Before the lights cut out. Which is why...why I am taking a chance I never dared to before.”

Sherlock leans in and the next words are a breath over John's ear.

“I love you, John. Am in love with you...have been for quite some time now, and it is irrational, and it terrifies me, and I have absolutely no idea what I am doing…how to do this...how to _be_ this, but...”

The fingers grazing the underside of John's wrist slide up to entwine with his and another hand slips tentatively around the back of John's neck, pulling gently to close the space between them as the last words are susserated against John's mouth,

“Will you let me love you?”

John is unable to respond as soft, timid lips brush against his own.

***

Sherlock chokes back a whimper at the realization that John is not pulling away, but is kissing him back. The hand not in his own has slid up into his hair, hesitant at first, then twisting into his curls, pulling him forward, pressing them more firmly together.

He is the one to break it, pulling back enough to try to search John's face in the dark. His voice hitching with emotion as he manages to get out just one word

“John?”

“God, yes” is murmured against his cheek, a soft touch of lips on his skin, before John tugs him back into another gentle press of lips.

Letting go of John's hand, he trails one up to card through short hair. The other coming up to rest on John's chest, as John's other hand comes up to gently stroke his cheek.  
John's lips part slightly, deepening the moment into a soft, languid exploration of mouths and tongues.

***

What seems like hours later, Sherlock graciously offers him the sole bench and the blanket to sleep on, but John just shakes his head and smiles in the dark.

Grabbing the blanket, he shakes it out and lays it flat between them before laying down on one side.

Reaching out, he takes Sherlock's hand and tries to pull him down next to him.

“Wait..” Sherlock whispers, reaching behind to grab the Belstaff and fanning it out over John before sliding in beside him.

It isn't nearly wide enough and they end up pressed nose to nose, lips brushing in soft kisses as they settle in - the weight and warmth just enough to be comfortable.

“Always wondered what it felt like to wear this thing…s’heavy” John murmurs sleepily, slipping one arm around Sherlock's back under the coat.

Sherlock’s head moves to rest against John’s shoulder, his breath warm against John’s neck.

“It used to feel like armor.”

John’s slides his hand back into Sherlock’s hair, letting dark curls slide between his fingers.

“What’s it feel like now?”

There is a brush of lips against his ear, and he shivers, tightening his hold on the man next to him when he responds.

“Like I don’t need any anymore.”

A comfortable silence falls over them for a few moments before either of them speaks again.

John turns, dipping his head just enough to nuzzle their noses together.

“Hey...Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”

“Mmm...It is, isn’t it?” and he can feel Sherlock’s face crinkle into a smile.

“Yeah...Yeah it really is,” John whispers, before searching out and pressing that smile to his own.

***

Sally yawns as she approaches the holding cell, silently cursing her luck at being stuck here on Christmas day.

It is oddly quiet, especially for these two, she thinks, pulling out her keys as she peeks through the small window to check on her only charges.

One hand flies up to stifle a surprised giggle as she reaches for her mobile with the other, snapping a photo and sending it off with a quick text.

***

Greg yawns as he reaches over his still sleeping bedmate to grab his buzzing phone as it lights up on the bedside table.

He clicks open a text from Sally, groaning to himself as he wonders what the two bloody idiots have done now.

_Should’ve been here for this one, boss, Merry Christmas!_

Is the only text as he presses to open the attached image.

He nearly drops his mobile laughing.

Sleep bleary but intense blue-grey eyes settle on him from across the pillow as he flops onto his back, still giggling.

“Gregory?”

“Shoulda locked them up together ages ago,” Greg huffs out as he turns the photo to face a very sleep rumpled member of the British Government.

“Maybe John will finally ‘get it in the Lock,’” Greg jokes, still fighting back laughter.

“If we could NOT discuss my brother’s impending sex life on Christmas morning, it would be much appreciated.”

“I could wait ‘till New Year’s?”

**Author's Note:**

> The "Game" is not a game at all. It is an experiment that has been done to try to get people to fall in love. It also has been used on existing couples or people who are close to increase feelings of affection. 
> 
> Here is one link ( you can find others with a quick google search) if you want to read ALL the questions:
> 
> http://news.berkeley.edu/2015/02/12/love-in-the-lab/


End file.
